


Many Unexpected Skills

by nothingislittle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Clueless Sherlock, Crying Sherlock, Dancing, Dancing Lessons, M/M, Masturbation, Missing Scene, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Poor John, Poor Sherlock, Pre-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Series 3, Sherlock is so clueless, Slow Dancing, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but neithe realizes the other is into it, sad wanking, so they fuck it up, the thing of when they're both into
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 08:49:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5822179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingislittle/pseuds/nothingislittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So … dancing lessons, eh?”<br/>Seeing John there, standing at the door in the context of their old life together, makes Sherlock beam. He argues with his face to tame the obscene earnestness of his smile, but he loses the fight.<br/>“Hello, John.” ... <i> Have you any idea how much I miss you? <i></i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Many Unexpected Skills

Sherlock steps deliberately around the flat, examining things, hands occasionally whipping out to make a small adjustment. Shift this a millimeter to the left. Spin that a quarter turn to the right. Wipe up a speck from here, deposit it there.

Once finished, he sits in his chair, steeples his fingers, and, eyes closed, tries to negotiate with his skin to stop crawling.

 

\---

 

He’s trying to stay out of his mind palace because, this close to John visiting, it’s frankly dangerous. But it’s difficult. The flat always smells like him now, although Sherlock knows it’s a trick of his mind. He knows how John smells, he thinks of John, and then the flat smells of John. Just a memory. That’s all.

The clock ticks on.

 

\---

 

“ _Time is a prison_!!”

“What was that, dear?”

He hadn’t realized Mrs. Hudson was in the flat. _Dusting._

“Mrs. Hudson, I am _trying_ to _think_!”

“Looks more like sleeping to me, dear.”

“ _MRS. HUDSON_.”

She scrambles a bit, grabs up the furniture polish, and microscopically budges up John’s chair as she leaves. Sherlock reaches out one long leg and adjusts it, incrementally.

 

\---

 

The shirt is the wrong one, it’s wrong, it’s all wrong. He digs, mines, through his closet, until he finds the purple one. _Too obvious_. _The black?_ Then he sees the ribbed white, from the day they met. Tearing off the black, he hears an echo of Mycroft’s voice, somewhere in his head:

“ _Sentiment.”_

“Shut up!!”

The shirt is too tight. The buttons pull.

 _Good_.

He leaves an extra one undone, by his neck.

 

\---

 

_Tea. Tea. There should be tea._

With shaking hands Sherlock opens and closes drawers.

“Spoons? A tray. Or, no. Yes. The kettle first.” He mutters madly.

Cabinets are opened in the pursuit but not shut. He pulls out needed items as he sees them, piecemeal, frantically setting them where free space allows. One spoon and the sugar bowl, sitting by the sink, a half tarnished silver tray on the table, another spoon still in his hand. When he finds a teacup with something blue dried in it, he moves frantically to rinse it out but knocks it hard into the faucet and it shatters, jagged and ugly.

A warm, weathered hand over his own. Mrs. Hudson’s knowing smile.

Sherlock’s cheeks burn, tears prick at his eyes. Embarrassed, nervous. Exposed.

“Mrs. Hudson, I—”

She nods, squeezing his hand.

“I’ll take care of this, you go ahead and relax for a bit.”

Out of the corner of his blurred vision, he sees a prepared tray of tea and biscuits. He kisses her gently on the cheek, and she just smiles, dropping pieces of broken porcelain into the bin.

\---

When John finally arrives, Sherlock is sitting casually in his chair, book in hand, words blurring to muddled, grey mush. He can hear muffled voices. John and Mrs. Hudson’s mundane greetings already taking too long to bear—ten seconds, then fifteen. _Outrageous_.

Sherlock directs his foot not to shake, his free hand not to tap. His insides churn with such turmoil they feel like they could shake him completely apart, and he tenses his stomach to calm it. Just one of the million tiny battles between his mind and body he faces tonight.

Footsteps on the stairs, heavier than before. _Tentative_. He hates it.

The door swings open.

“So … dancing lessons, eh?”

Seeing John there, standing at the door in the context of their old life together, makes Sherlock beam. He argues with his face to tame the obscene earnestness of his smile, but he loses the fight.

“Hello, John.” _Have you any idea how much I miss you?_

Truly, the mania in his smile is enough to alarm even John, but then John is smiling back, soft and golden and shining. It’s quiet just a moment too long and Sherlock feels the tightness of the strain between them. It’s exactly like a bow string just before it snaps. He jumps up at the same moment John moves to sit, making them both freeze.

Simultaneously:

“Just thought we’d sit a spell.”

“Mrs. Hudson made us some tea.”

Silence and then a second simultaneous outburst:

“Sorry, you go first.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

A beat. Then they laugh, a bit. Not like they used to — childlike and free — but small, awkward. Forced. _Why is it like this?_

Sherlock breathes, takes command of his body, smooths his jacket front.

“I’ll get the tea, shall I?”

John points to his chair. “And I’ll have a sit.”

They pass each other with plenty of distance, yet the nearly imperceptible draft created by John’s movement slices through Sherlock like a long, thin blade. He could reach out and touch him. In fact … he’s going to.

In the kitchen, as he fastidiously rearranges cups and spoons on the tray, he can hear an echo of his own voice, making the preposterous offer just three nights ago at the Yard.

They’d just met with Lestrade about some case or other. Honestly, Sherlock couldn’t recall. He was more focused on relishing that feeling, the one where they’ve just done something good and important and they’re walking away together, in step. His coat was swishing and billowing and he could feel it brush against John’s leg every so often. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t paid attention to what John was saying. It had just felt so good, so right to be sharing stride like that again. Like a team. Like a pair.

And then John had started to go on again about _the wedding_. Sherlock tried so to tune this out, to concentrate on the way their feet were hitting the ground at the same time. But then John had mentioned dancing, and Sherlock got caught up thinking about how their feet would move in tandem during a waltz, how their legs would cross over and around each other, and, _oh …_ how it would be to put his palm against John’s warm, callused one. Maybe he could even feel John’s pulse.

So when he mentioned concern over his first dance with Mary, said he couldn’t remember the first thing about slow dancing, it was out of Sherlock’s mouth before he could even assess the thought.

“I could tutor you.”

“What, with … dancing?”

“Er, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Many unexpected skills are required in the field of criminal investigation. I once broke an alibi by demonstrating the exact severity of the angle of a suspect's legs in arabesque.”

That may have been the baldest lie Sherlock has ever told, but John immediately fell for it.

“Wow, that’s amazing!”

He’d hated himself, then. For receiving false praise. For enjoying it.

“So would you? Tutor me, I mean?”

He couldn’t say no, of course. It would be a living nightmare, but he couldn’t say no.

“Certainly.”

John talked about Mary the entire trip home and Sherlock chewed on his tongue until it bled.

They’d settled on Thursday next and Sherlock had spent the time in hell. Or thought he had. Now with John here, knowing they’ll soon be _touching_ … _this_ is hell.

“Here we are!” Sherlock says, too brightly, reentering the room with tea tray aloft. His mouth tastes like hot copper. John just smiles, exactly as earnestly as Sherlock does, and if he thought it wouldn’t effectively ruin both of their lives, Sherlock would melt into a puddle right at John’s feet and rest his head in his lap for the next several hours.

Instead, he looks away and pours the tea.

 _Think of something innocuous to say_ , but Sherlock can’t, the entire vault of his mind is empty and barren of any topic other than John Watson.

“So … did you really learn to dance for a case?”

Sherlock chuckles, handing John his tea. John says, quietly, “Ta,” and the only word Sherlock can think of to describe that is _adorable_ and he loves it. Unapologetically and unironically. He decides to tell John the truth.

“I had private lessons when I was a boy.”

“Really?”

“Yes, one of the many ordinary things my parents insisted I try. I’d already blundered through a junior cricket league — a disaster — and football — less of a disaster, but more fights — when they hired a dance instructor to work with me Tuesdays and Thursdays after school.”

“What sort of dance did you study?”

Sherlock sips at his tea, settling into his chair and the subject, both of them familiar and comforting.

“Oh, everything. Jazz, tap, ballet.”  
  
“Ballet?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Erm, well, I suppose … not.”

“I’ll have you know I can still do an exquisite grand jete if the mood strikes.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

John is grinning like a wolf, like a fox with chicken feathers in his teeth, and an inexplicable warmth spreads over Sherlock’s entire body as if he were wrapped in down. They do nothing but share a few, quiet moments, eyes soft on each others. It’s lovely.

But then John looks away, and the space between them starts to feel like a living, breathing thing, an animal rubbing its fur against him. They used to be able to just sit, to inhabit the spaces between words, together. But it’s not like that now, and Sherlock doesn’t know what to do, how to fix it. Silence pulls out and droops like hot taffy and he silently begs John to save him. He does, of course. _As usual_.

“Should we just jump in?”

“Er, yes, let’s.”

Sherlock shakes off the stiffness, the fear, while John divests himself of his coat, scarf _and_ cardigan. Sherlock genuinely has to force himself not to watch, mouth agape, at John’s shifting muscles under the gingham button-down, which in fact, he notes after a quick check in his mind palace, is the same shirt John wore the day of their first meeting. Sherlock’s heart skips along giddily, while he bites his cheek and tells himself it must be a coincidence.

He breathes deep and attempts to inject steel into his veins and hits start on the instrumental playlist he carefully curated over the past three days. No love songs. _Betray nothing._

“Okay, step one. Empty your front pockets.”

John blinks.

“Sorry, what?”

“You’ll be holding Mary closely, I assume? Step one in partner dancing, ensure there’s nothing in your pockets that could poke your partner.”

“D’you really think I’ll have my keys in my tuxedo on my wedding day?”

“Immaterial, John. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. The fact remains, step one is to check your pockets.  
  
He chuckles, shakes his head, and pulls his wallet and keys from his jeans, crossing the distance between them to set them on the desk.

“You _would_ think of this.”

John’s sleeve brushes Sherlock’s as he turns back and Sherlock holds his breath. His body has risen at least five degrees and his heart rate is already escalating. He breathes out steadily through his nose in hopes of calming himself, acutely aware of every miniscule movement, every microscopic adjustment either of them make. It’s like watching the scene in slow motion, projected onto a gigantic screen, while simultaneously acting it out at normal speeds. His voice sounds distant, muffled, blood rushing in his ears, crashing like the ocean. His mouth and throat have simply stopped producing saliva and he swallows thickly, willing everything to normalcy, but an inevitable truth echos in a remote, empty room in his mind: there’s no way to avoid this. He will make a fool of himself tonight.

“Alright, all emptied. Now what?”

_Stay calm._

“We approach each other.”

They do, steadily, and in just three steps each they’re less than six inches apart. It seems like all the air in the room completely stills, but Sherlock chalks it up to over-heightened perception. _It’s impossible that their proximity has any effect on the directional quality of oxygen within the flat_ … _isn’t it_?

“I assume you’ll be leading when you dance with Mary?”

John is smirking, for some reason.

“Yes, I’ll be leading, Sherlock.”

“Right. So. Then. Ah. Hold out your left hand to the side, where I — where your _partner_ can … take it.”

John obeys and, without knowing where the courage comes from to do so, Sherlock puts his hand in John’s. It fits so comfortably there that, for first time in his life, Sherlock’s hand actually feels _small_.

“Now, put your opposite hand on, ah, my hip, er, side, erm, and I will place mine on … your … shoulder.”

Sherlock flexes his hand absentmindedly and then settles it into place, feeling the heat of John’s skin through his shirt and his heart rate increasing further still. John, smiling, gently rests his hand around Sherlock’s hip bone, index finger and thumb lightly press into Sherlock’s side, burning him even though this suit coat and shirt. Two points of incandescent light imbed themselves in his skin and, the way his heart hammers, Sherlock believes for a minute that it will give out.

Something must show on Sherlock’s face because John, ever kind to Sherlock, if clueless still, twitches his fingers gently against Sherlock’s body, smile faltering.

“Sherlock, are you sure this is alright? If … if you’re uncomfortable, we don’t have to do this.”

It’s amazing and Sherlock’s heart pounds harder still because John has learned so well, to see, to observe, and it makes him swell with pride and affection, even though he’s drawn the wrong conclusion from the data: Sherlock isn’t uncomfortable because he _doesn’t_ want to touch John, but because he so desperately does.

“No, John. Everything’s fine. Let’s work on our foot positions.”

 

\---

 

They spend the next ten minutes slowly picking out the steps of an English waltz, the rigid frame of their arms keeping a manageable distance between them. John’s not uncoordinated, just uneducated, and soon he’s leading Sherlock around the room almost smoothly.

The longer they touch, the warmer everything feels, and the the lighter Sherlock’s head gets. John cracks a joke and they laugh as they gain speed and their steps even out. They twirl and twirl around the small room, and Sherlock feels like he’s soaring, floating, and ignores his growing dizziness. Instead he focuses solely on relishing the pressure of John’s small, strong hands against him and the way little, warm puffs of breath from John’s mouth keep landing on his face. And then things go blurry for a moment and he loses all sense of balance, nearly falling into the hearth. John props him up.

“Sher — are you alright? Here, sit down.”

He guides him to his chair and Sherlock tries to shake the grogginess from his head. _What happened_?

“Yes, John, I’m sorry. It’s just. I’m a bit warm, I think. Plus all that … spinning. I must have forgotten to spot.”

John is in doctor mode and it makes Sherlock wants to kiss him. He feels tipsy. Drunk on John’s body contacting his.

“Yes, you’re sweating. Take off your jacket and I’ll go adjust the thermostat.”

Sherlock does as he’s told and with John out of the room it’s like a spell has broken. He suddenly feels foolish, aghast at himself for getting so swept up. John barely touched him and he nearly swooned? How humiliating. Thankfully he seems to have covered well. Sherlock puts his head between his knees and breathes deeply, trying to regain control of his body. He’s cold, now, without his jacket. Without John. He shivers at the thought of being exposed, at the thought of accidentally giving the game away and John finally seeing all of Sherlock’s desires, laid bare. Because if they dance too much closer, too much longer, his body’s involuntary responses will take him over and then … surely it will be the end of their friendship. Something sharp and unpleasant pierces through Sherlock’s gut at the thought.

John reemerges from the kitchen with a tall glass of cool water and Sherlock pretends that kind of thoughtfulness from John doesn’t make him want to cry.

“Here you are.”

“Thank you, John.”

“Alright? Feeling better?”

Sherlock downs the glass in one go, the cold helping to clear his muddy head.

“Ah, much.”

“For the next run, I’ll make sure to support you better, eh? Don’t want you falling.” There’s that caddish smile again and Sherlock can’t figure what it’s about. He must just be laughing at him, to be so sensitive to nearly pass out from a few spins. Sherlock decides to run with it, to get out ahead, while he can.

“I think I’d better pack it in. Anyway, we’ve covered the essentials. You’ll do fine.”

“Really? Shouldn’t we … well, I dunno, focus on making it more natural next?”

“More natural?” Sherlock rubs his bottom lip, dreading the implications of John’s suggestion.

“Y’know, loosen it up a bit. I don’t want it to look like I’ve just had one lesson. Please, Sherlock? I really do think I need some more help. That is, I mean, if you’re feeling up to it.”

Sherlock tries to disguise his sigh as one of long-suffering, rather than fear.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Ooh, love it when you say that.” And then John _winks_. Sherlock’s belly flutters with pleasure.

“Well, it is so _rarely_ the case, after all.”

He’s truly perplexed at the way John’s acting. Sure, John has always liked to tease him with suggestive jokes and comments, but Sherlock has never been able to deduce why and, however much he secretly likes it, he wishes he wouldn’t do it _now_ , for God’s sake. Sherlock can barely keep it together as it is.

“This time,” Sherlock says as he selects another song, “try to relax the frame of your arms as well as, erm, holding me, or rather, your partner, a bit closer. The idea is to emulate a natural embrace.”

“Yeah, I get the idea, Sherlock.” John’s voice is lower. Fuller. Sherlock can’t stop the blush creeping up the back of his neck.

“Er, well. Rather obvious, I suppose.”

Sherlock turns and John is right there. He steps into Sherlock’s body and slips his arm around his back, taking Sherlock’s opposite hand firmly in his, pulling him close so that they’re pressed to each other from chest to thigh. All of the air leaves Sherlock’s body like he was punched in the gut.

“Alright?” The slight growl in John’s voice might have been a point of interest if every single iota of Sherlock’s concentration wasn’t focused on preventing blood from flowing toward his groin. He swallows, throat thick as molasses.

“Just fine.”

“Same steps as before?”

“Mmhmm.”

He wants to look down at John’s face, to sort through a few deductions about what John thinks of all this, but he can’t. He has to concentrate. He looks straight ahead, above John’s head, jaw tight, promising himself to give nothing away.

And then they’re spinning again, more slowly this time, with only the occasional stutter in their step. Sherlock keeps all of his muscles clenched, thinks only of Mycroft or case files about decapitations, or the exact number of stairs leading up to the flat. It feels like dying because he wants to look into John’s eyes, to write these moments onto the inside of his eyelids so he could never forget them, but he can’t. If he looks down, his face, his body, his entire existence will betray him. He vows to hold tight to his steely resolve.

And then John says his name.

It always takes his feet out from under him, his name in John’s mouth. He’s become quite adept at taking the hits, like bullets caught in his teeth, but all his energy is directed toward keeping his hands from shaking, his chest from heaving, his cock from hardening, and this bullet lodges right in his heart, shattering his resolve.

“Sherlock?”

He looks down, and there’s John, in his arms, close enough to kiss. Eyes so blue and clear he could dive in. _How have I never noticed this?_

“You’re not breathing.”

“What?” Air comes in all at once, filling his lungs and puffing his chest out so it presses even harder into John’s, both making his head so light it could float away.

“You stopped breathing about 20 seconds ago.”

“Sorry, I was … thinking about … something.”

He doesn’t have a hope of bullshitting even a little when John is this close, but, thankfully, John has absolutely no bullshit meter when it comes to Sherlock. He just smiles up at him, with that look. That terrifying look, like Sherlock is some kind of hero, like he’s actually worth a damn, like Sherlock’s the most impressive thing he’s ever seen in his life. It makes him want to cry. It always has, because he’s not, he’s none of those things, and yet John has this look on his face that could only be described as softly incandescent. It’s too much, Sherlock feels naked, like this. Exposed, worse than he could have imagined. Like if John looks too long, he’ll see everything Sherlock really is — which is nothing.

Sherlock looks away, ashamed, and tries to put his mind to other things. Like what experiment he’s going to work on when John leaves. _There’s the mold growth rates in the freezer, or the —_

John’s touching his neck. One, small finger grazing slightly against Sherlock’s left pulse point.

“Your heart. It’s beating quite fast, Sherlock.”

“What?”

“I can see the pulse … in your neck. It’s. Rapid.”

John’s skin there, against Sherlock’s, makes him dizzier than spinning in circles ever could. He can’t think of a good excuse. Hell, can’t think of _any_ excuse. He spits one out, looking up to the ceiling.

“Yes, well, physical exertion and ... all that.”

It’s patently ridiculous, because they’re not even truly dancing any more. Just swaying, like a couple at a grammar school dance. Sherlock is distantly aware the music has stopped.

John applies more fingers to Sherlock’s throat.

“You know, you have a fascinating smattering of freckles here.”

 _What in God’s name is he_ doing _?!_ Sherlock thinks this is a perfectly rubbish time to take an interest in dermatology, and he tells him so. John laughs for some reason, obviously completely unaware of the effect he’s having on Sherlock.

“You doctors, always so bloody curious.”

He laughs again.

“Yeah, that’s what I am, Sherlock. ‘Curious.’”

“What are you—?”

He lays his whole hand there, covering his pounding carotid artery — _Is he trying to take my pulse?_ — and drags his thumb along the line of freckles that runs along the tendon there. It’s taking every ounce of concentration to keep his chest from heaving uncontrollably, from whining at the somehow silken pad of John’s thumb trailing toward his collar bone.

Desperate to think of something to say, to distract John from his sudden interest in Sherlock’s epidermal formations, Sherlock picks the first thing that comes to mind.  
“John?” He wonders if John notices the young, breathy quality of his voice.

“Hmm?”

“Would you like to learn a dip?”

The hand on Sherlock’s neck falls away and he looks into John’s face. The brightness of his smile could light the entire city of London.

“You mean, I would dip you?”  
Sherlock nods silently, bemused at the enthusiasm, but glad to have successfully derailed him.

“Yes, let’s!”

“Alright, we’re going to do this on a pivot to the right, so make sure the arm that’s supporting your partner’s back has a firm hold.”

John slinks his arm back behind Sherlock, holds him tighter, brow furrowed. Sherlock finds the seriousness with which John approaches Sherlock’s instructions endlessly endearing.

“Got it.”

“Now plant your left leg in between mine as we step to the right.”

“Like this?”

As soon as John does it, Sherlock realizes his miscalculation.

“Ahhh, yes,” He clears his throat. “Like that.”

John’s thigh brushes lightly against Sherlock’s groin. By some miracle, he’s managed to keep himself from becoming fully erect, but he’s aroused enough that once they spin around and John takes on the majority of Sherlock’s weight, John’s flexed thigh muscle is going to press rigidly against Sherlock’s cock and the secret of Sherlock’s desperate desire for John will be revealed. In a second, the scene flashes before him: John’s anger. His _disgust_. Yelling and stomping from the flat, demanding Sherlock never contact him again. He realizes he’s about to lose John forever and his stomach turns.

But it’s too late.

“Here we go,” John spins, leaning Sherlock back and, _oh god_ , there it is. The pressure is delicious his head drops back, eyes losing focus. John’s arms hold him easily, despite their difference in size. He’s so strong, so warm. Sherlock pulls himself up a bit, a bit dazed from the blood rushing to his cock. John is smiling that smile again, like Sherlock is his personal angel, perfect in every way. It’s all about to come crashing down. He feels himself lengthening, hardening against John, terrified and frozen, clueless as to a plan of action.

His body takes over, twists in just the right way that John loses his grip and _smack_ , Sherlock collapses from three feet up right on his tail bone. What little breath he had left is knocked from him.

“Sherlock, are you al—”

John is reaching for him. _Can’t let him see_. Sherlock struggles to turn over, scrambles away on his hands on knees.

“Sherlock what—?”

Finally making it to his feet, he runs down the hall toward the bathroom.

“Sherl—!”

_Slam!_

He shuts and locks the door, falling back against it and sliding down. Heaving breaths to try and regain his composure. The inevitable knock falls on the door.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

 _Knock knock._ Sherlock still can’t answer, lungs bursting.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened, I must have lost my grip. Sherlock?” He knocks. “Please tell me you didn’t break your tailbone? Do I need to call emergency assistance?”

“ _NO!_ ” Sherlock finally chokes out. That would be just the thing, paramedics rushing in, finding him passed out in the bathroom from this outrageously embarrassing erection that, by the looks of things, won’t be flagging for _hours_.

“No, no, I’m fine.”

“Well what happened?”

“I just slipped, John. That’s all.”

“Why did you run in here like that, Sherlock, what the hell?”

“Erm, just had to uh, use the loo! When you have to go, as they say,” He laughs weakly, trying to sound light and airy, and failing horribly.

“Sherlock, _jesus_ , what are you talking about? Are you sure you’re okay?”

Sherlock turns toward the door, presses his forehead hard against the wood, blinking back tears.

“Yes, John. Perfectly. Why don’t you go on home?”

“What? I’m not leaving until I see you’re alright.”

_Damn him._

“You did great tonight. Fantastic lesson. We can pick up again next week, alright?”

John’s voice is softer this time.

“Sherlock … did I do somethi—”

“Go ahead home, John. Mary’ll be waiting.” Sherlock chews on his fingers, chokes back an honest to God sob that he’s asking John to leave him, to go to someone else.

Sherlock can sense John’s still on the other side of the door, when the tears start to fall, dripping from his cheeks.

“John. I’m fine. You can go .. _. please._ ”

It’s quiet for a little while and Sherlock makes sure his crying is as well. He holds his hand against the door, imagining he can feel John’s beaming warmth through the grain and fibers. He can’t, of course. He can’t.

Then, softly: “Alright, Sherlock. Call me … you know, if you … need anything.”

“See you next week!” He chimes back, too brightly, cheery but with a hard edge.

John doesn’t go right away, but after about thirty seconds, Sherlock hears a scraping sound as John’s hands fall away from the door, hears the heavier footsteps traipse through the flat. _Tentative_. He’s gone from unsure about coming in to unsure about leaving. Sherlock squeezes his eyes tight, trying to force out all the tears as he listens to John shuffle on his sweater and coat and head out. _Back to Mary’s._

Turning his back to the door again, he slumps farther down. _What a disaster. What a heartbreak._ He looks down at his still rigid cock, the teeth of his trouser zipper straining.

_What a joke._

He’s still crying, thinking of his hand in John’s, when he presses his palm to his cock. Hissing through a sob, he rubs himself, concentrating on the way John’s arm encircled his waist, the way he held him so firmly, only the thin layer of Sherlock’s shirt separating John’s skin from his. He moans, wipes his nose with his opposite hand, hating himself, hating everything. _May as well_. He unzips, fists his cock tentatively, but when the memory of John’s fingers caressing his throat flashes before his mind’s eye, Sherlock’s back arches.

“Ah, _christ_.”

Tears stream freely from his eyes as his starts to feel slick with precome, imagining John letting his hand fall further, covering his chest with his palm. Sherlock sobs at the thought of John’s lips brushing his neck, over his freckles, and when he thinks about what it would be like if John pinched the peak of his nipple, his orgasm hits him, too hard. He cries out, cock pulses painfully in his hand, pumping ribbon after ribbon over his fist and trousers. It goes on too long, and Sherlock sobs, drawing it out, relishing the slight edge of pain, punishing himself with oversensitivity, biting his lip to stop from yelling.

Once his body stops twitching, he opens his eyes, surveying the damage. There’s come everywhere, all over his clothes, his hands, and even the bath mat.

“ _Pathetic_.” Sherlock disrobes and, shaking his head in disgust, stuffing everything into the laundry hamper.

 

\---

 

In the shower, he stands under cold water, unable to move, picturing John’s beaming face, turned up at Sherlock like he’s perfect. He spits into the drain.

 _Not even close, John_. _Not even close._

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at teapotsubtext.tumblr.com for lots of yelling.


End file.
